Like Father, Like Son
by PyroStriker
Summary: Part 2 of the Feld series. Zieg's POV as he goes through before, during, and way, way after the Dragon Campaign.
1. Chapter One

Author's Note: Yeah, another fic on the Dragon Campaign. I did this because although it's been done many times, every writer's view of the Dragon Campaign is different, because we don't know that much about it. It's been told from Damia's, Shirley's (neither of which I've had time to read yet, but I'll get to them eventually), and Rose's POV, the latter several times. But what surprises me is, no Zieg fics. He's usually just portrayed as Rose's love interest and nothing else, like he doesn't have his own character. He was the leader, why shouldn't he have his say? Well, I decided to change that.  
  
The game never really says much about Zieg. It's basically, oh yeah, he had a thing with Rose, got turned to stone, woke up a really long time later, had a kid with Haschel's runaway daughter, then got possessed by Melbu Frahma and did bad things. There are some people (Aerena, for instance, who I'm hoping won't take offense and come after me with a stapler) whose opinion of Zieg could be summarized as thus; 'He spawned the retarded pile of slime known as DART, so he must be a horrible, horrible character and I should hate him for no real reason'. Well, I'm afraid I can't see eye to eye with that, and I decided to do something about it, as I did with Crimson Wings. Remember, it takes serious guts to be a leader. At least, that's what I think.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
"You there, Blondie! Move your ass!"  
  
I snarled angrily, but the overseer raised his club in a threatening matter and I returned sullenly to my work. I was twenty-three, and a slave for an odious Wingly known as Lord Halmon on his grand estate in the outskirts of Aglis. I had been in this accursed hellhole for nearly two years now, after being handed off from owner to owner, none of which seeming to know what to do with me. Halmon did, but he was a typical cold-hearted slave driver. If they can work, then beat them into submission. If they can't, sell them off. Pathetic human lives meant nothing to him.  
  
My life hadn't always been like this. I used to be one of the more fortunate of the Human race. My mother died in childbirth, but my father served in the Wingly military. When he died, I was bought by one of his comrades who wished to spare me from the horrors of the slave system, a fine Wingly who proved that friendships between the two races were far from impossible. He retired from the army soon thereafter, and I grew up and worked on the blacksmith's shop he opened. He owned a fair amount of slaves, but he treated us well, so well, in fact, that some Winglies muttered that he practically considered children instead of beasts of burden. That was all we amounted to as far as most of the so-called higher species were concerned, barbaric animals. It made me sick, with them justifying keeping us in chains by saying that they were saving us from our own ignorance, exposing us to the wonders of a superior society, but they always conveniently forgot to mention that it was being built on our sweat and blood!  
  
Still, I was happy there, not really a slave except in title. However, several of the more wealthy upperclassmen decided that my owner's views were a bit more radical for his own good, and more importantly, for theirs. When I was nineteen, he died under suspicious circumstances, but the doctor wrote it off as natural causes. That was a blatant lie and I knew it, for I recognized the symptoms of poisoning when I saw them. It was foul play, pure and simple, and the doctor was in on the scheme, probably receiving a nice fat sack of gold for his troubles. Bribery was also the reason the case was never investigated, that much was obvious.  
  
He had originally intended to leave a portion of his inheritance to each of his slaves, just enough to buy us our freedom. However, because of the unexpected time of his death, he had not yet written a will. Therefore, all of his belongings were divided among his own offspring, as Wingly law dictated. He had seven children, and was far from a rich man, so they decided it would be too costly to let us go, and released us into the system to fend for ourselves. I had become just another slave, alone among the countless others of my kind trapped in a tortured existence from which we would never escape.  
  
I had been bought up shortly afterwards, able-bodied young males being in high demand. However, my new owners were apparently unused to defiance, and I switched hands quickly. I was bought and sold no less than a dozen times in the two years between my first owner's death and my purchase at the hands of Lord Halmon. However, my current owner appeared accustomed to insubordination, and his cure for it, like everything else, was a strong whipping. I had lost count of the times I had been beaten over the months.  
  
As I loaded the last of the freshly cut lumber into the cart, Lord Halmon strode by haughtily, surrounded by a pair of his personal guard. He must have been going into the city for a purchase of some kind. However, he seemed sullen and preoccupied. I could not resist a wisecrack, even though it was almost suicide to speak to one's owner out of place. "Someone looks a little upset today. What's wrong, did a mule kick you in the testicles again?"  
  
The Wingly's pale face flushed with anger and embarrassment; apparently the memory was still painfully fresh on his mind. I had instigated the whole incident, of course. A discreet blow with the herding stick to the beast's flank had done the trick. It was quite amusing, and besides, I had taught him a valuable lesson. The rich Winglies were too dignified to experience something so degrading, so I decided that I was doing him a favor by giving him a taste of what it was like out here. Apparently, he enjoyed it even less than we did.  
  
He had known I had done it the whole time, or at least suspected, but he couldn't do anything about it. There were a steadily growing number of judges on the benches of Zenebatos that sympathized with our plight, if such a thing was truly possible, and Halmon couldn't have a slave 'exterminated' unless he had concrete proof I was a detriment to superior Wingly society. He had none, so I was off the hook. Of course, he could have me unceremoniously hanged or something of that sort, but there were quite a few other nobles who would be very gleeful to find such juicy gossip, regardless of how they treated their own humans. Halmon had a reputation to keep up. A slave could get away with just about anything if he wasn't stupid enough to leave a trail; I was merely the only one brave enough to try. Some wrote it off as stupidity, but I preferred to call it taking advantage of my situation. I was stuck here anyway, why not get a little fun out of it?  
  
As Halmon turned to me, two overseers strode up to stand behind me on both sides, heavy clubs in hand to beat me into a lifeless bloody pulp if the lord so much as raised a finger. The blood-red gaze narrowed murderously, but I merely sneered up at him, undaunted. When I spoke, my voice was low, so that only he and the four nearby flunkies could hear. "Go on, do it. Make a martyr out of me. What do I care?"  
  
I knew he wouldn't kill me. Winglies were so predictable; you always knew how they would act. Therefore, they were easily manipulated. However, I was treading on risky ground here. If this didn't play out as I had planned, I would wind up dead. The crimson irises widened briefly, then hardened again. "Give him a good whipping."  
  
So, the situation with the slaves was as bad as the rumors said, possibly even worse. The number of revolts were climbing, they could easily snowball into a full-scale revolution. Decisions that the Winglies normally would have made in the blink of an eye now took serious consideration, for one misstep could cost them their way of life. I just had to exploit that uncertainty and I could get out of nearly anything. Beatings were trivial matters, I marveled at the fact the lash still penetrated my back for all the times it had been done.  
  
One of the overseers unfurled a heavy leather whip and lifted it high above his head. The first stroke came whistling down, flaying a stripe of skin from my back and sending white-hot spasms of pain shooting through my body. I forced the pain to the back of my mind and ignored the bile that welled up in my throat. I took my attention away from the familiar agony by twisting my face into a mocking smirk as I stared up unblinkingly at my owner. He didn't own me. I was my own person, and all the beatings in the world couldn't convince me otherwise.  
  
The expression on my face clearly angered Lord Halmon, and he let the beating go on for longer than usual as a result. When it became clear I was not going to break, he motioned the overseer down, and turned on his heel, heading down the road toward the commercial area of the city, his bodyguards trailing behind him like a pair of loyal dogs. I looked up to make sure Halmon was well out of sight, and glanced back to make sure the overseers had gone off to brutalize someone else. Then the façade crumbled. I dropped to my hands and knees, gagging and retching, trying to free myself of the phlegm that had built up in my throat.  
  
I finally stood up, gasping for breath as my blood and various other bodily fluids formed a nauseating pool at my feet. The lashes on my back still stung, but I knew the pain would fade eventually. It always did. I knew I had only made things worse on myself by continuing to goad Halmon, but I didn't care. I would let the whipping go on forever before I gave that pigfaced jackass the satisfaction of seeing me cringe in pain, begging forgiveness. But this time it was my point. Sorry, Master, but I win this round.  
  
I trudged back to the huts to patch up my wounds, then went back to work.  
  
A few hours later, a young Wingly approached me as I was smelting a new set of horseshoes, one of the things that I alone was assigned to do, for I had the skills necessary that most of the other slaves didn't possess. "You there. The boss wants you."  
  
So Halmon had returned from his little trip. I wondered what he wanted now. Probably another beating and a private threat. I sighed, releasing the tongs' grip on the last horseshoe, which dropped into a nearby bucket of water, which made its protest known through a hissing cloud of steam. I laid the tongs down and followed the courier to the grand mansion.  
  
I was led into Halmon's private chambers. The room was lavishly decorated, obviously meant to put a victim in awe of his power. However, it disgusted me, for in my eyes it was nothing more than a tawdry squander of wealth, which had been gained off the labor of a repressed people, who were viewed as little more than parasites. Halmon got up from his chair and walked around a highly polished ebony desk, and turned to face me. His words were cold and soulless, as if they were being spoken through the mouth of one of their mechanical creations.  
  
"You're being sold."  
  
Surprise flickered on and off my face. It was hardly what I had expected. After all, for all my defiance, the work I did was adequate, and slaves trained in artisan skills were hard to come by. He looked as if he were waiting for me to respond, but I remained silent. What could I say? It wasn't as if I had any decision in the matter.  
  
"To the arena. You leave immediately."  
  
Ah, the arena. So he had finally become truly scared of my influence. The arena was where owners sent slaves who had either killed a Wingly or slaves who were believed to be on the edge of doing so. It was a perfectly legal and profitable way of getting rid of someone who might entice your mild- mannered workers into a raging mob. I supposed I should have been flattered he considered me such a danger.  
  
"They paid bottom price for you, though. Apparently they had heard about your reputation as a troublemaker."  
  
I finally broke my silence, my voice dripping with acidic sarcasm. "Oh, boo hoo. There's a real blow to my self-esteem." I knew my worth; I didn't need anyone else to tell it to me.  
  
The Wingly's face contorted in anger and indignation, for nobody else dared to speak to him that way. He raised his hand as if to strike me, but he hesitated when my eyes glittered dangerously. When I spoke again, my voice was arrogant, purposely egging him on. "Go ahead. But I warn you that if you so much as touch me, I'll have you on the ground in a chokehold so fast you won't be able to utter a single syllable of that flashy magic of yours.  
  
Now that was risky. It was an open death threat, he could have killed me then and there and nobody in Zenebatos would have given him so much as a fine. But his hand dropped. He either didn't wish to get into anything messy or he was actually concerned about his ability to overpower me. I didn't blame him, for years of easy living made the upperclassmen soft. With nobody to help him, I could kill him without much difficulty, and the result would probably be me getting sent to the arena anyway.  
  
I was herded out of the manor and onto a crude wooden cart. As the wagon started on its bumpy path, I contemplated my current situation. I was going to become a gladiator. The more I thought about it, the more I considered it a step up from my previous station. The arena at least had decent food, sanitation, and medicine, for sick or malnourished warriors were not profitable ones. Plus, the only pain I would suffer in the coliseum would be inflicted by other humans, which didn't bother me as much, although I wasn't exactly certain why.  
  
I saw Halmon's elegant carriage pull along side us, drawn by a pair of fine steeds. He was coming to watch the ceremony, then. Every day, the arena introduced the new arrivals to the crowds before they fought their first match the next day. Either Halmon was interested in what my introduction would be like, or he simply felt like going that day. It didn't really matter to me.  
  
When we arrived in the arena square, I was ushered onto a large wooden platform along with a dozen or so others. Usually the new gladiators were pitted against each other in pairs in a brief test of their skills. Sure enough, after a few others had engaged in short matches, I was shoved to the front, and someone clapped a short sword in my hand. I tested the weapon, and looked for Lord Halmon in the crowd. I spotted him quickly, for he was in the prominent front rows, watching the proceedings with a superior smirk.  
  
Would it work? The sword I held in my hand was not large or heavy, in fact, it weighed only slightly more than the large work knives I used often in the fields. Soa knows I'd practiced this stunt enough with those. Besides, the crowd was packed, and one Wingly was as good as another as far as I was concerned. My mind made up; I raised the blade in a sort of salute to my opponent. He looked at me uneasily, as if unsure if my strange motion was a kind of weird ritual or if I was just inventing a creative way to ram my weapon through his gut.  
  
He had nothing to worry about, however. In a flash, I whirled and released the blade, hurling it into the crowd. Hundreds of faces simultaneously turned to where the sword lay embedded deep in the chest of Lord Halmon. There were several shouts for a medic, but I knew it was far too late to help him. That shot was directly on target, he would be dead almost instantly.  
  
There were also several shouts that were slightly more vocal than the others to kill me on the spot, but I knew that wouldn't happen. Most of the fighters had gotten here in the first place because they had killed Winglies, and one less noble did not concern the arena masters. They were in this business solely for personal profit, and this incident had proven my worth far better than any sparring match would have. They loved stunts, the flashier and more reckless the better. I was already showing promise in their view; I would not be killed.  
  
It was ironic in a bitter way, when I looked back upon it. Halmon had sent me to the arena hoping it would be my death sentence. But I had not only decreed his death sentence, but also confirmed and carried it out as well, all in less than a second.  
  
Always one up on you, Master. I always have been, and now I always will be.  
  
Author's Note: Not exactly a sunshine and daisies fic. But I enjoyed writing that chapter. Anyway, if any of this is wrong, which it shouldn't be, because I haven't even gotten close to the actual Dragon Campaign yet, then make sure to let me know and I'll edit. 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Yeah, I know this update took forever. I got caught up in other things. Sorry. I promise the next update will be faster... but whether I'll keep that promise is another thing entirely. So far I've had TWO goddamn floppies screw up and delete my data. I lost all the stuff for the next chapter of Rebirth, which means it'll be even longer for that update too... grr.  
  
Anyway, I decided to put Zieg where he had something resembling freedom for a while, but then he gets thrown into brutal treatment. I think it builds his resentment towards Winglies. After all, if he hadn't been exposed to that, he wouldn't have the motivation to lead an army for a revolution. At least, I don't think so. So that's what I decided to do.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
I was nearing the end of the last leg of the dash around the arena. It was the final day of the three-week training course. My legs churned and pumped, and my stomach began to roll and squirm in protest. I ignored it, for the finish line was in my sight. I passed the line in a final heave, and gradually slowed to a stop. I bent over with my hands on my knees, exhausted.  
  
The training course was supposedly meant to whip us into shape, but we all knew what it was really for. The true purpose of the series of grueling physical tests was to weed out the slaves who had been sent to the arena for the sole purpose of having no other place to go. Those of us who had kept in good condition from hard labor on some pigheaded Wingly bastard's estate did fine, despite at the end of each day you felt totally spent and that your organs felt like they were about to shrivel up and implode. But the course was technically optional; the people who didn't show up simply didn't get fed. So the weak or sickly ones either refused to come and wasted away from starvation, or pushed their bodies beyond their physical limits and died from overexertion. Sometimes it was a combination of the two, but in any case it achieved what the masters wanted. There were always a few ones that slipped through by training a few days out of the course and starving themselves for the rest, but they were usually so weakened that they were killed in their first bout.  
  
We were dismissed, and I began the walk down one of the cracked stone quarters towards my cell, or 'personal living space', as they were also known. The room I lived in was simple, a bed against one wall, big enough for me, but not by much, with a thin mattress and a thinner blanket. This was actually not a problem, for because Aglis was so high in the air, it got a great deal of sunlight. Often the strong winds so far up maintained decent temperature, but in midsummer the weather could be truly brutal. A crudely constructed table and stool sat in another corner, with a single candle in an old, tarnished brass holder. A large wooden trunk contained all of the personal possessions, if any, we had brought with us.  
  
But this time, there was an assortment of armor laid out on my unmade bed. I lit the candle and stared at it in puzzlement. Could someone have left their equipment in my room by mistake? I had no particular desire to be accused of stealing, for the usual punishment for thievery was the amputation of an extremity, usually the off hand, unless you used a large weapon. I had better get to the bottom of this before things turned ugly.  
  
I turned to one of my fellow fighters, nicknamed Rock for his extraordinary ability to take a great deal of physical punishment. He was dark-skinned, with brown eyes and black hair, and I assumed he must come from the plains. Almost all of us had nicknames, because nobody ever told anyone their true name unless they were absolutely certain they had a worthy ally. For some reason I could never quite fathom, a person's true name was regarded as a precious secret. I had no idea where such a superstition came from, but I decided it would be best to play along anyway. Rock's cell was near mine, and we had become as close to friends as two people could be in this place.  
  
"Hey, someone left their stuff on my bed."  
  
"No, that's your stuff. Equipment was issued today."  
  
I berated myself mentally for not thinking of that before. The first matches the new fighters would be participating in started tomorrow; we had to get our armor somewhere. Rock took a peek into my cell, glancing at the equipment on the bed. He gave out a low whistle of appreciation. "Not bad, considering what some of the other guys are going out there in. I guess they think you'll look better in armor."  
  
"I don't know, that's a lot of extra weight, and it must be damn hot in all that metal in summertime."  
  
"Probably worth it, though. At least you got more than a loincloth."  
  
I grimaced. I certainly was grateful for that much. "Why, did you get that?"  
  
"No, but I know a few guys that did. I don't envy them."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Listen, they've got the next week's matchups posted. Want to go check it out?"  
  
"Sure, I'll be there in a minute. I want to look at this stuff more closely."  
  
"Right."  
  
He left, and I walked over to the bed to get a better look at what I had received. Plate chest mail, which was heavier than chain, but was almost impossible to penetrate unless someone aimed specifically for the weak points. A pair of chain mail shorts, which covered the groin and upper legs, it chafed a bit, but nothing intolerable, and certainly preferable to nothing. A pair of leather gloves, to prevent against blisters until calluses formed, and an identical pair of boots, to protect the feet from the sand that covered the floor of the arena, which could heat up to almost unbearable temperatures during the midday bouts which had the highest turnouts. Four knives were lined up next to the chest armor. These had a special purpose, for they were to be hidden in concealed places in the costume for use if one lost a weapon or simply if it were to give them an edge in the battle. The crowd loved underhanded tactics, even more so if they worked correctly. Every warrior had at least three of these daggers hidden on them at any point in time; some had as many as six, while a select few could have up to a dozen stowed away. They were mismatched, and I had a suspicion that they were probably bought in mass quantities from the Wingly police's confiscated weapons.  
  
Then, I came upon a true godsend; a pair of polished steel greaves, securable to the back of the legs by a pair of leather straps and buckles. These would protect from my shin to my ankle, and they even had a tip that extended upward to protect my kneecap. I was glad for this, for I had heard of fighters who took shots at their opponent's knees when they believed they were losing, crippling the other gladiator and giving the former underdog a easy, if ill-earned victory. That was the last of it, and I was pleased at what I had gotten. My arms would be bare, but I wasn't sure that it would have been worth the extra weight anyway. In the arena, the ability to move quickly was the most important thing of all, and if you lost that, then you were either defeated or dead. No helmet either, but I hated those anyway; the accursed things cut off most of your vision.  
  
They had brought me no weapon, but that was because I had told them otherwise. I picked up the candle off of the table and opened the lid of the large oaken chest, revealing the sole content, the only thing I saw fit to bring with me. A sword, my sword, lay inside, gleaming in the faint light of the candle I held in my hand. It was a bastard sword, forged specially so that I could use it with one or both hands without discomfort. I had made it myself when I was seventeen, with some help from Osath, my father's former comrade and my guardian for thirteen years of my life. It was a hardly something to be sold on the grand bazaars of Kadessa for thousands of gold pieces, but I believed that I had done a better job on it than anything I would obtain in this place.  
  
I was no stranger to the sword, either. I had naturally had a great deal of training when I lived in Osath's home, most of it from Osath himself, a great swordsman in his own right. When he died, I had to practice on my own, in secret, usually during the night. During the first two years I was never caught, mostly because I was never in one place long enough for anyone to pick up on the habit. When I was sold to Halmon, however, I was discovered several times. I was always taken aside and given a whipping, but my weapon was never taken away, and of course a beating had never discouraged me from anything. I had always wondered why he had not ordered the blade taken from me, and now that I was here I began to think that he intended to sell me to the coliseum all along.  
  
I placed the blade back in the chest, and carefully laid the armor and knives along with it. Dropping the lid with a hollow thud, I turned and walked out of the cell. I headed back down the corridor, headed for the hub of the lower levels of the arena. The lower levers, where all the 'living spaces' were situated, was designed like a wheel. There where eight identical corridors, each lined with cells, that led to the outer ring, where the rest of the warriors boarded. The center of the wheel was where all the schedules were posted, and the stairway that led to the upper levels, and the stage itself, was placed there as well.  
  
I met up with Rock halfway down the closet corridor to our cells. He had apparently been waiting for me to catch up. We continued down the long stone hallway until we reached the so-called 'hub' of the wheel. It was a large circular chamber, which perpetually stank of sweat, for all the fighters returned to this room before making their way back to their cells after their battles. Today the room was even more crowded than usual, as the schedule for the next week was tacked to the bulletin board on one wall. The plainsman and I waded through the tide of bodies to where we could get a better glimpse. Rock, who was taller than I, was able to find his name first.  
  
"I'm not up for another three days, sometime in the afternoon. I don't recognize the number of my opponent, though."  
  
Rock prided himself on his memory of the numerical identities of the other gladiators in our course. I saw the nervousness on his face, and rolled my eyes. Occasionally some of the more promising new fighters were pitted against experienced veterans, and of course they were almost doomed to failure or worse. "Oh please, like anyone can remember everybody's number. You'll be fine."  
  
"Yeah, I suppose."  
  
I saw an opening in the crowd, and quickly squeezed my way into the space before somebody else could box me out. I scanned the sheets of parchment, searching for the number that had been given to me when I had been assigned a 'living space' upon entering the arena. I eventually found 194C, and grimaced slightly as I saw the time. "Tomorrow, midday."  
  
The midday bouts were not only staged in the hottest part of the day, but they also attracted the largest crowds, which meant that it was a very bad time to screw up. This also meant greater fame if you were to pull off something spectacular, but a new gladiator's most pressing concern was to get out of your first match as unnoticed as possible. Rising in the favor of the public, and more importantly, the masters, came second, although it still cut a prominent figure in everyone's minds. Those who fell out of the good graces of those in charge often found themselves in a match against one of the best warriors in the coliseum, with half of their equipment conveniently 'misplaced' the night before.  
  
This time Rock's whistle dipped down in pitch, taking on a low lilt filled with sympathy. "Ouch."  
  
"Yeah. Who's 327F?"  
  
Rock frowned. "That's Bear."  
  
"Wonderful. Tomorrow at noon, and I'm against Bear. What else could go wrong?"  
  
"Well, I have to say that's not a setup I would fancy much."  
  
I was not a short person, but Bear stood a half foot taller than I did, which led to his nickname. There were many, myself among them, who suspected him of having Giganto blood. Bear himself had never disputed this claim, and nobody had ever heard him speak, which lead some to doubt that he could even talk at all. But nevertheless, he was one of the favorite pupils during the training course, and he was given an enormous two-handed broadsword. I did not look forward to facing him in combat before a ravenous crowd of Winglies. My spirits sinking more by the minute, like a heavy stone dropped in a deep lake, I motioned to Rock and we left.  
  
On the way back, I attempted to feign nonchalance. "Where do they come up with these nicknames anyway? Rock and Bear. You think that they could be a little more creative."  
  
Rock chuckled softly. "You have to remember, most of the guys here can't read or write. In this place, a slave is considered gifted if he can scratch his name in the sand. You're like a genius to them."  
  
I had been blessed with literacy during my early years on Osath's estate. I had even learned the language of the Winglies, which was considered an untouchable subject meant for the race above we lowly human scum. I guess that I had taken the knowledge for granted. But I often felt surprise when one of my fellows could not understand a shout from the crowd, or when I found someone unable to decipher the spidery script on the occasional sign held up aloft from the sea of silver-haired bodies or on one of the musters that seemed eternally fastened to the overseer's hand. The overseer himself was a human, a grizzled middle aged man who had once been a gladiator himself, but was fancied so much by the masters that he was elevated to the position of making sure that all the slaves knew what they were required to know. He was taught the language by a Wingly scholar, and received a monthly salary, something almost unheard of for a human.  
  
"Did you ever learn to read or write, Rock?"  
  
The plainsman looked up towards the stone ceiling, as if fascinated by its need for repair. "I learned to read some, but never to write. Where I grew up, a person's not even supposed to learn that sort of thing until they come of age. I was tossed in this dump before I got a chance to pick up any more."  
  
"What are you in for, anyway?"  
  
Rock snorted. "I was on a hunt, and shot something I thought was an elk. Turned out it was a Wingly lord dressed in leather with his hair hidden to blend in with his surroundings. He was on a 'wildlife expedition' or some crock of bullshit like that. The idiot should have thought of hunters, but I got thrown in here anyway."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"They actually made me a slave first, but I didn't take too well to that idea, and ended up punching the lights out of some Wingly, I think it was my owner's son. The look on his face before he was knocked out cold was just priceless, though." The dark-skinned plainsman laughed grimly at the bittersweet memory.  
  
We reached the end of the corridor and headed for our bunks, which happened to be adjacent. Bear happened to walk by at this point, flashing me a scowl that accentuated the red painted bear's claw on his broad right cheek, another factor that added to the origin of his nickname. I wasn't sure if he was trying to intimidate me in preparation for tomorrow's fight, or if he was just being bad-tempered in general. I dimly wondered what time it was, when the overseer clomped his way towards our cells, making his way around the outer wheel of the catacombs. "Get some sleep, you miserable sacks of pond scum. You'll need it for tomorrow. Tired fighters don't put on a good show, and you all know what that means."  
  
We did indeed. Entertaining the crowd was the biggest thing in the arena, everything else took back seat. It didn't matter if you were the best swordsman on the planet, if you didn't work up the masses, you were expendable, and nobody wanted to be expendable in this place. Rock and I lapsed into silence, and after a few moments we turned and trudged into our respective cells. I flopped onto the bed, trying to take my mind off of my growing anxiety over tomorrow's duel. My mind sped along haphazardly for a while, then gradually subsided into reluctant sleep.  
  
Author's Note: Yes, I know it took me way too long for this update, but it's longer than most of my chapters, and I had to rewrite it three times. *still angry about the floppy episode* Anyway, next chapter will be the big fight. I'll try to get it up faster. By the way, you may have noticed by the lookups for Crimson Wings and this story that I have dubbed them the Feld series. Which would lead you to make the logical assumption that there will be a third part. That is a correct assumption, and there might even be a fourth, I haven't decided yet. I'll probably finish Rebirth before I start one of them. There will either be a fic describing Dart's life from Neet to just before the game, or a post-game Dart fic. Maybe both. Just thought I'd let you all know. 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter 3  
  
I awoke the following morning; feeling like the night was far too short for comfort. My throat was dry and raspy, and every muscle in my body seemed like it was moving through molasses. Reluctantly I pulled myself from my bed, getting dressed in the profound silence of what I knew to be the early morning, for otherwise it would not be silent at all. Already I detected the sounds of some of the other gladiators rising; an occasional thump and curse as someone bumped into something in the dim light, the hollow thunk of a trunk closing, and sometimes the muffled clang of a cell door closing a bit harder than a fighter had intended. I reached into my own trunk briefly to retrieve my weapon, then headed for the door. I hesitated on the threshold for a moment, almost as if I was afraid to leave the relative security of my room, but I slid open the door, closing it gently behind me. One did not want to close the heavy iron doors too loudly, for it often disturbed the late risers, the more irate of whom would find out who had awoken them and seek out a private fight, out of the view of the crowds, which resulted in death much more frequently than a scheduled match.  
  
I made my way toward the nexus of the lower level, passing rows of cells like mine, whose inhabitants seemed only beginning to stir. I slowly ascended the spiral staircase to the middle floor that contained the mess hall and the various other facilities, just beneath the arena itself. My footsteps echoed off the stone, seeming louder than usual due to the lack of the other noises that had clouded the background during all of my previous visits to the chamber. I turned and started walking to where breakfast would be served, keeping my gaze firmly on the cracked stone beneath my feet. The thin light of the dawn did not bring hope or happiness, but a sort of bleak grimness at the weak glow that filled the halls, for the stone caverns allowed little entry for the sun's rays.  
  
Travelling in some sort of numb daze, I helped myself at the mess hall. Today I did not have to give my number to have it checked, for the training course was over and the gladiators could eat without having their attendance checked. I sat down at one of the crude wooden tables, still oblivious to the world around me. I ate out of necessity, not from appetite. It wasn't as if the food was inedible or anything, although it was far from gourmet, it simply stemmed from the fact that in my trance- like state I couldn't taste it. It all tasted like sand and ash in my mouth. Sand and ash, the only part of my mind that seemed to be functioning properly thought. How appropriate, considering that I would be seeing plenty of those today. The sand that covered the arena floor to cover the blood and the ash from the massive pyres used to burn the last day's dead.  
  
I finally pushed the plate aside, for I could eat no more without forcing myself, and I knew that as often as not, that leaded to you puking it up an hour later anyway. The possibility that this would be the last day of my life was very evident, much more so than I would care to admit, even to myself. Of course, I had no choice in the matter. If I refused to appear in the arena, I would be found and either hurled bodily into battle, or executed, and a last-minute replacement was found. The schedules were never given out beforehand for this reason. Unexplained disappearances happened occasionally, and some of the spectators would wonder where their favorite fighters went for a little while, but nobody ever cared for long.  
  
My morbid musings were interrupted by a familiar voice. "Up bright and early, I see."  
  
Rock's words seemed to jolt me from my strange stupor, and I glanced up at him, my eyes bleary. I grunted something incoherent in reply as the plainsman sat down next to me. He chuckled. "With a sunny disposition to match."  
  
I felt my weariness gradually melting away as my body began to recover, and I glanced back at my unfinished food. With a sort of half sigh, half groan, I pulled it back toward me and began to eat again, suddenly feeling much hungrier than I had been. Rock laughed again, then turned his attention to his own meal. When I was finished, I pushed my tray towards the center of the table, the crude porcelain scraping against the wood with a hollow noise. I stood up and waited for Rock to finish eating. When he was done, we both left the mess hall for the training area.  
  
The training area was basically a large open space opposite the eating area where the fighters could practice before a match. Racks with weapons of all kinds hung on every wall, but the room itself was empty. Rock had agreed to help me out before the fight with Bear, and he hefted his spear, swinging it a few times experimentally. The plainsman's weapon was shorter than most spears I had seen, and a wicked-looking barb protruded from either side of the head. It was apparently the weapon that he had grown up learning to use, and he firmly refused to take up anything else.  
  
Without warning, Rock struck. Caught off guard, I brought my blade up to protect the contents of my stomach. The sound of steel on wood spread throughout the chamber, for we were the only ones there this early in the morning. Rock swung again, but this time I was prepared. I blocked the stroke, turned it aside, and thrust at his chest. He blocked the stroke with the head of his weapon, then lashed out with the butt end. I leapt backward, and then lunged, my sword slicing through the air in a downward arc. Rock was forced to bring his spear up perpendicular to my blade with both hands above his head, exactly as I had anticipated. My foot caught him in the chest, and he fell hard to the stone floor.  
  
I snorted, resting the tip of my sword on the ground. "Is that the best you can do?"  
  
The next thing I felt was the butt of his spear driving into my gut. The wind was knocked out of me, but I kept my balance. Rock was up on his feet in a second, grinning. I was somewhat less than appreciative. "Of all the dirty, underhanded..."  
  
"Now, now, let's try to be civil."  
  
An hour later, we left the area, for it was becoming crowded and we were both slightly worse for wear than when we had started. I didn't want to be so tired out when the real match came that I would go down without a decent fight. I bit my lip as I realized that the midday bouts would begin in a little more than an hour, and I was one of the first ones to go up. The queasy, lethargic feeling returned to my bowels, and I could only hope that I wouldn't be sick. "I'd better go get ready."  
  
Rock nodded gravely. "Right."  
  
We turned and left, my head bowed again. Rock obviously noticed my anxiety. This didn't surprise me, for I was sure that my face practically screamed apprehension. The plainsman tried to remain optimistic, but whether his feelings were sincere or not, I couldn't tell. "You'll be fine."  
  
"If you say so."  
  
Rock stood outside the cell while I put on my armor. After a few moments, I came hopping out of the door on one leg, for I was in the process of putting on my greaves. Standing up, I decided that they weren't tight enough, so I bent back over to adjust the straps. Moving one of the knives out of the way, I pulled the buckle up another notch. Rock, who had worked with leather in his village on the plains, had been able to obtain some surplus pieces of leather, and was able to wrap them around the straps that secured my greaves into a sort of sheath for my knives. It made them easier to draw, and prevented them from cutting into my legs while I was moving. In the arena, blood was very important, because losing too much blood made your reactions sluggish, so Rock had decided to prevent any unnecessary wounds that could very well determine life or death.  
  
As I straightened up again, and Rock looked me up and down. He nodded. "You ready?"  
  
"Not really, but it's not as if I have much choice in the matter."  
  
"True enough."  
  
Moving back up to the middle level, we stopped at the second staircase. I stared up the spiraling steps, looking to the barest glimpse of blue sky above. Neither of us had been into the actual arena before, except during the brief period in which we were taken into the catacombs. We hesitated for the moment, as if almost afraid to go back up to the world we had left behind. I shook my head once as if to clear myself of the foolishness, then started up the stairs. The blue expanse widened, and in what seemed like no time at all, I was back in fresh air for the first time in a month. I stood just outside the stage itself, hidden in the shadows of the enormous walls of the coliseum that seemed to stretch even further into the heights of the sky already conquered by the Wingly race. The crowds were already filing into the prime seats, for the first midday bout was set to begin in fifteen minutes, according to the gigantic sundial mounted on a stone dais at one end of the arena. I spotted Bear near the other fighter's entrance, but he made no sign that he had seen me. Of course, someone could be running around with their hair on fire while being chased by a horde of crazed horses and Bear would show no sign that the person even existed. The strange giant was like that; he always seemed lost in something much deeper than what was going on around him.  
  
After every seat in the stands was full, a huge steel gong was struck, and the crowd burst into cheers. An exuberant male Wingly floated above the center of the ring on a levitating platform, and began to shout in the Wingly dialect, his voice magically magnified so that his words could reach the highest seats in the arena. I did not attempt to translate his words, for they had no real impact on me anyway. Besides, in my somewhat less than composed state, I probably would have turned the archaic speech into unintelligible gibberish. I decided not to waste my time. The two opponents marched towards each other stiffly, a pale, skinny man with a long rapier and a surprisingly short man with a large, hook-pointed dagger.  
  
I shifted my focus from the fight to my adversary. Bear looked, as usual, unconcerned with the world and everything in it, but I detected a slight edge to his awareness which informed me that he was not nearly as nonchalant as he tried to appear. That knowledge restored some of my confidence, and I examined my opponent closer. He was dressed in a gigantic suit of leather covered in various furs. I pitied the big man for a moment, for the hides probably stunk horribly in the hot sun, not to mention how he was most likely close to roasting alive in all the insulation. He did not show any outward signs of discomfort, but that was no evidence in itself, for the burly brute appeared to have some sort of personal taboo against showing his emotions.  
  
I was not ashamed to admit that I was afraid of Bear. Only someone stupidly arrogant would sneer at the seven-foot tall man with his enormous broadsword and perpetual scowl that accentuated the crude tattoo on his cheek. People who are simply foolish are often cowardly as well, and someone who is both foolish and arrogant would probably have been killed by something else before even meeting Bear anyway. He was very intimidating, by any standards. I fervently hoped that the fights before ours would be short ones, or I would begin to lose my resolve again.  
  
As if Soa had happened to be listening to my anxious wish and had decided that he had nothing better to do, a resounding cheer swept the masses above. The man with the rapier had his foot planted on the diminutive fighter's stomach, his weapon pressed to the throat of his foe. The Wingly announcer yelled something incoherent, gesturing towards the massive throne on the opposite end from the sundial. That particular seat was reserved for the highest-ranking Wingly present at the games, and they were the ones to decide whether the vanquished champion would leave with his life. Today Melbu Frahma was not present, and his sister Charle did not attend the contests, so the Wingly sitting in the royal box today was undoubtedly some high-ranking noble, although he was not one I recognized. He contemplated for a moment, then extended his arm, thumb up. I saw the knife-wielding fighter visibly sigh with relief, and the thin man removed his foot and weapon, even stooping over to help his former opponent up.  
  
The next pair of gladiators strode into the ring, but by that time my mind had drifted off again. I seemed to be sweating much more than the heat would normally have caused, and a very large lump seemed to have lodged itself in my throat. My eyes were almost magnetically attracted to Bear's face, and every time I tried to move my gaze, it absentmindedly slid back to its previous position. I noticed that he seemed a lot more attentive to his surroundings as well. I seemed to have a lot more energy than I remembered, and I shifted uneasily from foot to foot.  
  
Suddenly a surprised gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a sort of half-hearted explosion of yells and applause, punctuated by several groans. I looked up to find that one of the gladiators was lying on the sand, blood seeping from his slashed throat. The gong was sounded again, as it was at the end of the last and every bout. The announcer shouted again, and I knew that my time had finally come. I took a very deep breath, looked myself over once to make sure everything was in order, and then walked out into the visible part of the ring. Lifting my weapon, I swung it a few times to get the feel of it, then paused. There were always a few minutes between each match, enough time for the more adventurous spectators to examine the competition and place their bets, and for the hands to cart off the body, if there was one, to where it would later be burned.  
  
I turned to Bear, and every muscle in my body tensed, surging with suppressed energy. The starting word lashed out like a whip, but I made no move. My huge adversary lunged, and the tension snapped, and I was on the move. I met his stroke, leapt to the side, then swung my blade in a downward arc. Bear parried, but I had already hopped out of reach before he could retaliate. I began to circle the giant, my stance wide to compensate for his advantage in size, the point of my sword held low, weaving slightly in the air.  
  
I dove again, but he blocked easily. He was much more skilled than I had thought, and I spun awkwardly. Bear recovered quickly and sensed his advantage. I felt steel sink into my bare armpit. I cursed as I saw the crimson stain grow. That was a very bad place to be stabbed, for it bled profusely. I would have to make it quick. I performed a quick slice, which was predictably blocked by my foe's enormous broadsword. As I had hoped, he attempted to turn it aside so that he could have a free thrust at my heavily protected vital areas. Instead, he found my foot catching him in the chest, and he fell to the ground. I lifted my weapon, prepared to end the fight by default rather than having to kill unnecessarily, but he rolled out of the way with surprising dexterity and was up on his feet.  
  
The stroke he delivered next was so unexpected that I had little time to parry. The block was clumsy, and the sheer force of the blow swept the weapon from my hands, where it skittered across the sand. I felt my blood chill, and I tensed up as I prepared to dodge his next move. His weapon landed heavily on the sand, as I had moved to the right just in time, and my left hand dipped behind my leg, seizing a knife and thrusting it out quickly.  
  
Again, haste was my enemy, for the strike dealt only a glancing blow. A stream of blood spattered the sand, and I saw Bear grit his teeth in pain. I realized that my dodge had inadvertently taken me to the exact spot where my bastard sword lay. I dove, scooping it up with my right hand quickly and whipping around just soon enough to keep my enemy from taking my head off. The angle at which the two swords connected was odd, and they grated against each other with an eerie wailing sound. I took advantage of the distraction to heave his arm above his head, where he would not be able to recover fast enough to block. My knee connected with his hip, and he doubled over in shock. The dagger still clutched in my left hand jabbed upward, finding lodging in the big man's chest. The furs and leather offered only momentary resistance, and as I continued to apply the pressure, I heard two sickening cracks as my weapon snapped a pair of Bear's ribs. Finally the tip reached his heart, and the organ burst. Blood spurted from the wound, covering my arm, splattering on my leg, and soaking into the sand like some sort of grotesque polish.  
  
I gazed at Bear's face, only to see the spark of life already dimming from his eyes. Blood began to drip from his mouth, but I was surprised to see his lips move in a final gesture.  
  
"Well... done."  
  
The first, last, and only words I had ever heard Bear speak. Then his body slumped, and I knew that a dead body rested on my arm. The crowd burst into a triumphant cacophony, and I suddenly felt ill. I had just killed a man, and yet they found it spectacularly entertaining. I jerked my knife free, still slightly nauseous. I had killed things before; all able-bodied slaves were taught how to hunt, in case they were taken on an expedition and something were to happen to the food supply, but killing a man was different. It just felt wrong, somehow, and I suddenly seemed very unclean, but not because of the blood running down the left side of my body.  
  
Then the ring started to spin, and I felt very warm. I realized that in the time it had taken me to finish off my opponent, I had probably lost a great deal of blood from my earlier wound. I sunk to my knees, sword point sinking into the bloody sand. Then my arms gave out, and I fell to the ground. The last thing I saw before my vision went black was the crimson bear paw tattoo on my vanquished foe's stained face.  
  
I woke up some indeterminable period of time later, feeling very weak. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around. I was back in my cell, with a bandage wrapped around the cut I had received during my fight with Bear. A familiar face, aroused by my stirrings, peeked through the bars at me. It was Rock. "How long have I been out?"  
  
"You've been sleeping like a poled ox for a day and a half now."  
  
I groaned audibly, then became suddenly attentive. "Wait... that means your bout is today."  
  
"Yeah. Afternoon, first match. Want to go grab some breakfast?"  
  
I groaned again, louder this time. Food was the last thing on my mind. The plainsman chuckled. "OK, fine. I'll see you later, then."  
  
"Yeah. Sorry I won't be able to help you practice. I won't miss the fight, I promise."  
  
"Don't worry about it. Look out for yourself. By the way, that was one hell of a match. The Winglies went nuts."  
  
I was not any more proud of my victory than I had been, but I did not respond. He left, and I sank back into my bed, falling back to sleep almost immediately.  
  
A loud rapping woke me again. I looked up to see a man banging on the bars of my door with his knuckles. "Your buddy's fight is about to start."  
  
I didn't recognize him, but I nodded my thanks regardless. He exited down the corridor, and I pulled myself from bed, getting dressed hastily. My arm ached and itched slightly, but the sharp pain was no longer present. I left my room, the door grating shut behind me. I ascended both staircases almost mechanically, and I seemed to be in the same sort of trance that plagued me before my own battle. Despite having sleeping almost undisturbed for two whole days, I still felt very weary. I emerged in the small area where gladiators were permitted to watch the fights, and I sat down on the crude wooden benches.  
  
The gong was struck, and the irritating announcer began to shout in the complex Wingly linguistics. Rock strode into the sandy arena from one end, dressed in dark leather armor with the head of his short spear gleaming. What shocked me was who walked in from the other end. I recognized him, but not as one who had joined the arena at the same time we had. His trademark red hair, well trimmed beard and moustache, and the shining steel claws extending from his knuckles identified him immediately as the one the other fighters called the Butcher, a cold-blooded murderer, and apparently one of the most skilled champions currently residing in the arena. Rock's initial suspicions had been correct, and for some unknown reason he had been paired against a fighter far more experienced in the ways of the arena than he.  
  
The harsh starting word was uttered, and the Butcher sprung into action so fast he seemed to be sped along by magic. Rock blocked the first three dizzyingly fast strokes, then was caught off guard by the foot looping around his ankle and jerking his leg out from under him. He would have fallen to certain death if he had not planted the butt of his spear on the ground and pulled himself back to standing position in time to parry another two lightning fast slashes from the Butcher's claws. The russet- haired man continued his onslaught, driving Rock towards the edge of the ring.  
  
Finally, Rock succumbed to panic. The moment I saw the plainsman thrust his spear towards the Butcher's throat, I knew he had made a fatal mistake. A trio of wickedly barbed steel claws plunged into Rock's gut, and the dark- haired warrior's final thrust faltered and fell short. The aptly named Butcher pulled his weapon up and out of Rock's gut, three clumps of bloody flesh still clinging to the hooks of each prong. I watched as the man I had considered my only friend in this hellhole fell. Then I saw a bulb and a snakelike tube emerge from the gashes, and I realized with a sickening lurch that they were Rock's stomach and intestines, spilling out onto the sand in a flood of guts and gore.  
  
A few of the cheers faltered, for even Winglies depraved enough to watch public killing for entertainment had their limits. But the more exultant fans drowned these out. The Butcher made no sign of acknowledgement, but instead turned and looked directly at me. His eyes, which I now saw to be green, held a blank expression, without anger, regret, remorse, or even satisfaction. The expression was so strange it made me want to think he was looking past me, his gaze drifting into space, but I knew that to be a lie.  
  
Then, he spun on his hell and left me, completely and utterly alone.  
  
Author's Note: Yes, I know it took me forever, but I tend to get lazy during long weekends, and I get distracted from writing easily. At least it's faster than last time, and I made the chapter extra long to compensate. 4,000 words is a lot by my standards.  
  
Anyway, theories were crushed in this chapter. Obviously, Rock can't be Kanzas, because he was KILLED by Kanzas, and Bear can't be Belzac because, to put it simply, he's dead. Soooo... yeah. 


End file.
